Chapter 24 Tucker
TUCKER
"Stag. Grentley. You're sitting together on the flight."
Coach Thompson's voice cuts through the locker room chatter. Everyone goes quiet.
I look up from buffing my dress shoes. Grentley is across the room, already shaking his head.
"Coach, that's not—" he starts.
"Not a request." Coach's tone leaves no room for argument. "Management wants to see progress on team cohesion. You two sitting together for three hours is a good start."
"This is bullshit," Grentley mutters, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Watch it, Grentley." Coach doesn't even look up from his tablet. "Stag, you have a problem with this?"
I think about Sloane back at the apartment, probably curled up on the couch with her statistics textbook. About the babies growing inside her. About not making this situation worse than it already is. They are what matters. The rest of this is nothing.
"No problem, Coach."
"Good. Spruce up, gentlemen. Straight ties and zippered flies.”
He walks out, leaving me and Grentley staring at each other across the locker room. The silence is oppressive until Mayhem breaks it with a low whistle.
"Damn, T-Stag. Three hours next to your baby mama's ex? That's cold."
"Shut up, Mayhem," Alder says from beside me.
"I'm just saying." Mayhem grins. "Better you than me, man. I'd rather sit next to Spinner's smelly feet."
"My feet don't smell," Spinner protests.
"They absolutely do," several guys chorus.
The tension breaks slightly as everyone returns to packing their gear and checking out their suits. But I can feel Grentley's eyes on me, and when I glance his way, his expression is pure hostility.
This is going to be a long flight.
The bus ride to the airport is mercifully short. I sit with Alder, both of us quiet. My twin knows me well enough not to push conversation when I'm in my head.
But as we board the plane, there's no avoiding it. Grentley is already in our assigned row—window side—arms crossed, jaw tight.
I stow my bag in the overhead compartment and slide into the aisle seat. The armrest between us might as well be the Fort Pitt Bridge.
For the first twenty minutes, neither of us speaks. I pull out my phone and check messages. Nothing from Sloane yet, but it's still early.
"So," Grentley says finally, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "How's domestic life treating you?"
I don't take the bait. "Fine."
"Must be nice. Playing house with my wife."
"She's not your wife anymore." I keep my voice even. "And we're not playing anything."
"Right. You just knocked her up and moved her into your place. That's totally different."
"It is different." I turn to look at him. "Because I'm not lying to her. I'm not making decisions for her. And I'm sure as hell not going to—"
"What? Say it." His eyes flash. "You're not going to what? Fuck up like I did?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He turns back to the window. "Everyone thinks it. Poor Sloane, married to that mopey asshole. Thank God Tucker Stag swooped in to save her."
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" He looks at me again. "You saw an opportunity and you took it. Got her drunk at a party, got her pregnant, now you're the hero."
"She wasn't drunk." My hands clench into fists. "And I didn't plan any of this."
"Sure, you didn't."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. This is what he wants—to provoke me, to make me the bad guy again.
"Look," I say carefully. "I get that this sucks for you. I do. But taking shots at me isn't going to change anything."
"What's going to change is you realizing that Sloane isn't going to stick around." His voice is bitter. "She'll get what she needs from you, and then she'll move on. That's what she does."
"You don't know her."
"I know her better than you ever will." He turns away again. "But go ahead. Play happy family. See how long it lasts."
The flight attendant arrives with the beverage cart, mercifully ending the conversation. I order water. Grentley orders nothing.
We don't speak again for the rest of the flight.
The hotel in St. Louis is nice—one of those places with a lobby full of modern art and staff who are too polite to acknowledge when hockey players trash their rooms. Not that we do that anymore. We're professionals now.
Most of us, anyway.
I'm unpacking when Alder knocks and lets himself in.
"How was the flight?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows.
"Terrible."
"Figured." He sits on the other bed, his tongue clicking his removable fake tooth, which matches mine. "Grentley say anything useful?"
"Just the usual. That I'm using Sloane. That she's going to leave me. That I'm a piece of shit." I shove clothes into a drawer. "Standard stuff."
"He's projecting."
"I know."
"Do you?" Alder leans forward. "Because you look like you're letting it get to you."
"I'm not."
"Tucker."
I pause unpacking and turn to face my twin. "What if he's right?"
"About what?"
"About Sloane leaving. About this not lasting." I run a hand through my hair. "What if once they're born, she realizes she doesn't actually want me around?"
"Have you asked her?"
“She keeps saying we are co-parents. But … we don’t have any paperwork or anything.”
"And you're okay with that?"
"I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice." Alder stands, moving to the window. "But you have to actually tell her what you want. Not just go along with whatever she says because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
He gives me a look. "You're terrified. I can see it. You're afraid that if you push for more, she'll run. So, you're playing it safe, being the perfect roommate, hoping she'll realize on her own that she wants you."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you're doing." He crosses his arms. "And it's not working. Because she probably thinks you're fine with the roommate thing. That you don't want more."
I sink onto the bed. "What am I supposed to do? If I ask for an official custody document, she’ll think I’m being controlling. If I don’t, I’ll walk around constantly scared she’s going to bail.”
"Or she'll realize you're being honest about what you want. Which is the opposite of what Grentley did, by the way.” Alder sits beside me. "Tucker, you can't keep waiting for permission to want things. At some point, you have to take the risk."
I know he's right. But the thought of telling Sloane how I feel, of risking the fragile peace we've built—
"Come on," Alder says, standing. "Let's go to the rink. Get your head in the game."
The energy in the locker room is familiar, and despite the anxiety and superstitions flying around, it feels calming to me. Better than fretting over my misguided romantic urges.
Guys taping sticks, checking equipment, talking shit to each other.
I'm sitting in my stall when Alder settles into the one beside me. We're both in our base layers, gear laid out in front of us.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
He grins and reaches up to his mouth, carefully removing his false tooth. I do the same with mine. We turn to face each other, both grinning with matching gaps.
"We look ridiculous," I say.
"We look like hockey players." Alder's grin widens, and he takes a selfie, sending it to the family group chat. "Mom's going to kill us when she sees the photos."
"Worth it."
We sit there for a moment, two grown men with missing teeth, and I think about my twins. Will they be like this someday? Goofy together, comfortable in a way that only comes from sharing everything?
God, I hope so.
"What are you thinking about?" Alder asks.
"The babies." I set my flipper tooth in a cup in my locker. "Wondering if they'll be weird like us."
"They're Stags. Of course, they'll be weird." He claps me on the shoulder. "But they'll be lucky. They'll have you."
"And Sloane."
"And Sloane," he agrees. "Who, by the way, you need to tell that you're crazy about."
"One crisis at a time."
My phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping—
Sloane
Good luck tonight!
My chest tightens. She’s reaching out. This has to be progress, right?
Sloane
Also got my stats exam back. C minus. Not great but not failing!
I grin, typing quickly.
That's amazing! See? My sandwich-making skills are clearly helping.
Sloane
You might be right about that.
I'm about to set my phone down when another message comes through.
Sloane
I'm going to celebrate by swimming in your tub. This thing is massive. Pretty sure I could fit a dolphin in here.
The image hits me like a punch to the gut. Sloane, in my tub. Naked. Water sliding over her skin, her curls piled on top of her head, her hand resting on her stomach where our babies are growing.
“Fucker? You good?"
I look up to find Alder watching me with amusement.
"Yeah. Fine."
Alder punches me in the arm. "Oh man. You've got it bad."
"Shut up."
“Talk to her. When you get back. Tell her you want more than roommates."
I stare at my phone, at Sloane's messages. At the proof that she's comfortable in my space, in my life.
I want her. God, I want her so badly it's hard to breathe.
But first, I have to get through this game. Have to survive three periods on the ice with Josh Grentley, who hates me.
I can do this. I can keep my head in the game, focus on hockey, not think about Sloane in my tub.
Except I'm absolutely going to be thinking about Sloane in my tub.
"T-Stag!" Coach Thompson's voice booms through the locker room. "You with us?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Good. Because I need you sharp tonight. Chicago's bringing heavy hitters, and Mayhem's already nursing a shoulder injury. You're my primary enforcer. Don't let me down."
"I won't."
I send one last text to Brian and Uncle Tim. I need an update on the parental leave policy, and the players’ union is dragging their ass.
Then I start suiting up, piece by piece. Shin guards. Pants. Shoulder pads. Each piece of equipment is familiar and comforting. This is what I know. This is what I'm good at.
Protecting people. Fighting when necessary. Being the guy who makes sure his teammates can play without fear.
But tonight, there's an extra layer of complication. Because Josh Grentley is one of those teammates. And I'm supposed to protect him, too.
Even though he hates me.
Even though the woman I love used to be his wife.
Love feels like the wrong word, but I can’t figure out another one. Not when I need to get my head in the game.
I lace up my skates and stand, testing my weight. Everything feels right. Solid. Ready.
Across the locker room, Grentley is suiting up too. Our eyes meet for a moment. His expression is unreadable.
We start filing toward the tunnel. The sound of skates on concrete echoes off the walls. Somewhere above us, the crowd is already roaring.
This is it. Game time.
Sloane is at home, in my apartment, in my tub. Nope—I absolutely cannot focus on that mental magnificence.
All I have to do is survive the next three periods without getting killed.
Then I can go jerk off about it.
I follow my teammates into the tunnel, the roar of the crowd getting louder with each step. The lights, the ice, the game—it all waits ahead.
Here we go.